Catch a Glimpse of Sunlight
by AnthroQueen
Summary: 30 drabbles centered on the lives that could have been. A 30kisses challenge.


**Hello everyone! Jeez Louise, I'm gone for like three months and FanFiction looks like it downloaded iOS 7 lol. I'm not liking the new interface, but eh. We'll deal. So how are you all? I apologize for being completely MIA; I promised you all that new story at the end of "Remember the Days" and then I just never posted it. It's mainly because it still hasn't left the planning stage; I'm still working on it haha. Also, I took a month off of writing fic for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) because I was determined to win this year. I did, too, so I've been celebrating. :D**

**So this is 30kisses challenge, much like "Sand, Sun and Sea," one of my LOST stories. FanFiction doesn't allow me to post links, so just trust me that I didn't come up with this random list of 30 words myself. It's list Gamma and each of the random little drabbles are basically all over the place. They're very, very loosely linked and they're all set in the future, pretending that Michael somehow survived. Why, you ask? Why can't I just accept the fact that he dies? BECAUSE I CAN'T. And I can't quit these two, you all must know that by now. ;) Review to tell me you liked it or review to tell me how much it sucks- either one is appreciated and accepted! So, enjoy, hopefully!  
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Catch a Glimpse of Sunlight

~* A 30kisses Challenge *~

**01- inside out**

There's a thunderstorm on their first night together and the power goes out. They've been free for all of about six hours, holed up in a one-bedroom safe house at the edge of Miami Beach, and whatever grand plans they'd had to celebrate their newfound freedom have now been put on hold. The winds are whipping palm fronds maliciously into the windows and the rain is coming down in thick, heavy golf ball-shaped drops against the thin roof. Temperatures drop significantly, thunder crashes and shakes the ground beneath them and light only manifests itself in the fleeting flashes of lightening every few moments. It figures; the universe has never been on their side, not even once, so there really is no reason for it to cooperate now.

Sara's in the shower when it happens. It's been a long day and she feels like Lady Macbeth, scrubbing and scrubbing and still not coming clean. Her would-be mother-in-law is quite possibly the worst person Sara's ever met face to face and she deserved her fate, but murder leaves a sour taste in her mouth, an uneasy feeling in her stomach, and she does everything she can to remind herself that what she did was right. The lights dim a bit at first, then a bit further before completely going out. She knows there's a breaking point on the hot water tank; it can't be long now. Switching off the water, Sara steps out of the shower as though she's on a tightrope and feels around blindly for her towel. She's in unfamiliar territory and there's no source of light; it isn't a fear, or anything. But it isn't something she'd willingly volunteer for.

She can hear Lincoln swearing in the living room once she's somehow managed to dry and dress and this puts her somewhat at ease. Opening the door, Sara meets more darkness and a few steps later she collides with a body. It's Michael; she'd know him anywhere and she isn't surprised he's out seeking her. He reaches out, grabs her arm to be sure of her location and asks, "Hey. I was just coming to find you. You alright?"

"I'm fine. You?" She answers quickly and she's beginning to adjust to the darkness, now. She can just barely see him nod. "The darkness certainly made the shower more of a challenge."

He smirks. "I can imagine. We're looking for flashlights. We're going to try to find the breaker box."

"I'll help," She offers and allows him to lead her into the living room.

By the time they get there, Lincoln's already found an armful of flashlights, half of which are dead, two lack batteries and the one working flashlight is nothing more than a dim glow. Lincoln sighs, "This is just perfect."

"Well… we can survive a night without electricity, I guess," Sara shrugs.

Lincoln disagrees. "I ain't going back to pioneer times, Doc. Breaker boxes are in garages, usually?"

"Usually," Michael confirms.

"Alright. Be right back."

He disappears down the darkened hallway as Michael and Sara collapse onto the couch. It's strange and it's something she'll have to get used to, but there's nothing holding them back now; no pressing matters to be discussed, no government conspiracy, no prison sentence. They're sitting in silence because they don't know where to go next- nobody _told_ them where to go, nobody told them what comes after. Outside, she can hear the howling winds and the wailing sirens crying into the cold and bitter night, but here, right here, there's nothing but silence. And it's nice, it's comfortable, it's welcoming after such a long time spent running and scheming and hiding and risking their lives. They're allowed to be as open and as free as they want, now, and after being repressed for months and months, it isn't going to come so naturally right at first.

Sara wraps her arms around her torso, suddenly chilled, and only then realizes, "My shirt's inside out."

Michael chuckles, "How can you even tell?"

"I can feel the tag," She grins. "Well, it's as good a start as any."

He seems to understand what she means. "Yeah. Some first night, huh?"

She nods. "Did you ever picture it like this? An awful storm, no power… Pictionary, horror stories and going to bed before ten?"

"Never pictured it quite like that," Michael says, taking her hand and leaning back against the couch. "But as long as you're here with me, I don't care what happens next."

Sara's insides grow warm; she feels the same way. And yeah, it's as good a start as any.

**02- Valentine's Day**

It just so happens that they end up in Paris in February, more specifically on Valentine's Day. It's probably the most clichéd they've been since they've been together. Michael can't speak for Sara, but to him Valentine's Day has always been nothing but an utter disappointment or, in more recent years, an irritating reminder that he had had no one to share his life with. But now, with Sara… God, he's never been happier. And of course they've already been to the Eiffel Tower and the Lourve and the Arc de Triomphe and even Notre Dame and the catacombs. Michael had even bravely tried escargot; it hadn't been terrible, truly, but Sara still insisted she wasn't interested. She gave him a passionate speech about the placenta and how the baby eats everything she does and how she wasn't willing to subject their child to something so exotic. Michael had teased her and told her that was all just an excuse; she'd laughed, but hadn't denied it.

Valentine's Day is their last day in France; they're booking it to Barcelona in the morning. They're strolling leisurely along the Pont de l'Archevêché, searching for the perfect spot to commit their love to; to lock themselves in the romance and allure of Paris forever. When they've found one, a wonderful spot with a view of the Notre Dame, Sara shivers and tugs her coat more firmly around her shoulders, asking, "Are we being cliché?"

"Yes," Michael answers firmly. "But it's okay. Look at everything we've gone through. I think we're allowed a few clichéd moments here and there."

"I guess that's true," She says. "We've done absolutely nothing the easy way."

"No, we haven't and we never had much of a choice," Michael replies. "But we have one now and I want to do this to show the world how much I love you. I want to prove to them, to _everyone_, that that's never going to change; that _we're_ never going to change, no matter what anyone does or tries to do to us."

She grins. "I love you, too. Let's do it."

They reach forward and twist the lock around an open chain in the fence, securing it into place and feeling as though their love has soared to new heights when they hear that successful click. Michael kisses the cool metal of the key and hands it to Sara, who presses it to her lips before tossing it over the side of the bridge and watching it sail down into the Seine River. Michael wraps Sara in an embrace and she clutches him just as fiercely as they celebrate their newest little victory. They're kissing out in the open; in a city neither of them have ever been to and in a country far from their own. And Michael knows it's cliché; it's Valentine's Day and Paris is the most romantic city in the world. But he's sure this has less to do with Paris and more to do with Sara; he's sure if he'd been here with anyone else, it would hardly feel as spectacular.

They're still entwined as Sara leans back a little to admire their handiwork. "_Aimer, ce n'est pas se regarder l'un l'autre, c'est regarder ensemble dans la même direction_. It's a beautiful lock. I don't know what it means, though."

"Neither do I," Michael agrees and before either of them can attempt to figure it out, a man from beside them who has to be in his late seventies clears his throat and draws in a deep breath.

"_Aimer, ce n'est pas se regarder l'un l'autre, c'est regarder ensemble dans la même direction_," He reads from their lock and then translates, "Love is not the act of looking at each other, but of looking together in the same direction."

It says more than they could possibly hope to say. It somehow manages to convey everything they feel better than they ever could.

**03- passing notes**

They've been on the boat for only three days and Lincoln's already longing to abandon ship and jump overboard. They've been free for about a week and they're en route to Costa Rica to meet up with LJ and Sofia; that's what he has to keep telling himself to keep his sanity. They'll be in Costa Rica by the end of the week and then they'll truly be home; nothing but white sand, blue ocean waters and the relaxation of freedom Michael had once promised him all those months ago. It's what he needs after years on death row, after months of running from the law and after days of being the third wheel to his brother and sister-in-law who desperately, _desperately_, need their own place.

Michael's portside and Sara's on starboard. Lincoln is at the wheel, directly in the middle of the two, both literally and figuratively. He's got his eyes fixed studiously on the horizon, but it's hard to ignore the scratching of pens, the crinkling of paper and the not-so-stifled bouts of laughter on either side of him. It's even harder to ignore the sheets of folded paper whizzing past his face and behind his head. It started like this- Lincoln's shift at the wheel started early that morning and when Sara had brought him breakfast a few hours later, she'd stayed on deck and they'd fallen into easy conversation. Michael, who grew stir-crazy and bored, had joined them on the other side, but instead of joining in on their conversation, he jotted down a few things Lincoln still hasn't seen, folded the paper expertly and tossed it across the length of the boat. Sara had picked it up, laughed and written back. It only escalated from there.

The piece of paper falls right in front of the wheel and Lincoln frowns. "You guys are twelve, swear to God."

"Would you mind passing that along?" Michael asks, a mischievous grin on his face. "Our conversation isn't really meant for your eyes."

"Oh sure," Lincoln sighs, picking it up and handing it to Sara. "It's not like I'm doing anything else, like trying to keep us from smashing into the reef."

"You're doing an excellent job of that, by the way," Sara compliments, hastily scribbling something down before crushing the paper into a ball and tossing it back to Michael. She misses; the paper collides with the side of Lincoln's face instead. "Sorry, Linc."

He picks it up and tosses it overboard. Sara watches as it floats for a moment before becoming waterlogged and sinking into the ocean's depths. "Hey!"

"You two are going to be the death of me," Lincoln groans. "You got something to say? Say it front of the whole class."

"Uh," She shifts uncomfortably. "I don't think you really want me to."

Lincoln balks; he should've expected that _that_ is where their conversation was. They both stand and make their way into the cabin, notes forgotten. Michael pauses on the steps a moment to ask, "You're going to be out here a while longer, right?"

Lincoln grits his teeth. "Uh-huh."

Yeah. He needs to get off of this boat _now_.

**04- shriek**

In early June, Sara has a dream that she's being attacked by sharks. Oddly enough, it's a welcoming difference from her usual dreams; the ones where Gretchen is torturing her in Panama or the ones where Michael succumbs to his brain tumor and dies, the ones that are really ill fated memories. In this dream, she's swimming in the crystalline waters of the sea and then day turns to night almost instantly and she can no longer see the murky waters around her. There's a fin and then two and then three; she smells her own blood before she sees it and then she feels the unimaginable pain. When she wakes up, she's breathing hard and she's sweating profusely and her water's broken.

She doesn't panic and that's pretty beneficial, seeing as Michael panics enough for the both of them. She's not used to seeing him this way; he's usually so calm and expertly composed, but not now, not at two-thirty in the morning when they're sitting in the hospital, not when he has to watch the seizing pain overcome her and know that he's the cause of it. She assures him that she's fine, which is ironic, really, because that's supposed to be his job. It isn't as bad as she's been expecting; TV and movies really dramatize it, with women screaming bloody murder and cursing their husbands to the grave. Sara does none of that; she doesn't scream, she doesn't curse and she remains completely and genuinely calm throughout the entire birthing process. She has a death grip on Michael's hand and he's trying to mask his fear with encouraging words and that is all she's focusing on right now.

That is, until she sees their tiny, shrieking, squirming, slimy little baby boy. The pain, which certainly was nothing compared to having the skin of her back torn off, completely ebbs away and she's entranced instantly with their son. The nurses weigh him and measure his length and ties off the spongy, purple umbilical cord spiraling from his belly before swaddling him in tight and placing him in her arms. Sara's not calm anymore; she absolutely loses it. Their baby, who had come into this world flailing and shrieking, kicking and screaming, is now as calm as his mother had been previously, safely in her protective embrace and it's as if he _knows _that; he knows she'll protect him with everything she has. Sara looks at him, at this tiny and pink bundle they'd created, and begins to cry.

She can't stop, not after everything she and Michael had gone through in the past year or so, not after everything that had went wrong and could have prevented this child's safe entry into the world. She looks over at Michael, now, and sees everything she's thinking mirrored in his own eyes. They, too, are welling with tears; he curls a hand into her hair and pulls her face to his, kissing her over and over and telling her how much he loves her. She can barely repeat the sentiment; she's an absolute mess. She rocks her son a little and kisses his tiny forehead, laughing a bit as a few of her tears drip down and land on his soft blanket. Gunshots and imprisonment and torture, conspiracies and near-death experiences and thinking she'd lost the love of her life over and over again; Sara never thought they'd get here.

Michael takes the baby from her, then, and cradles their son as though he's as delicate as glass, as though he'll break from the slightest jostle. The tears in Michael's eyes threaten to spill over and, if possible, Sara's heart stretches and grows and feels as though it'll burst. The baby yawns, but his eyes remain clear and open upon his father. Michael says softly, "Hey little guy. It's Daddy. I'm… I'm your Daddy. I'm the one that's been talking to you and reading you stories the past few months. I'm here for you and I love you very much… And I'm going to do everything in my power to prove that to you."

This is the reason, Sara realizes then, that she stuck it out all those months of torture and death and despair. It was completely worth it, because there is nothing in the world that could serve as a replacement for this.

**05- "Try over there…"**

"You don't understand," Michael gripes. "I never take it off."

"Yeah, I know. You said that about sixteen times," Lincoln replies. "What about over there by the toolbox?"

"I checked there already."

"Well, check again."

"I was thorough."

Lincoln frowns. "When was the last time you remember having it?"

Sofia comes into view, leaving the back room with a box of scuba masks on her hip. "What's going on?"

"Mike lost his wedding ring," Lincoln answers amusedly.

Michael sighs in frustration. "I didn't _lose_ it. I just misplaced it. I took it off to make some adjustments on Jorge's sailboat and I have not seen it since."

"Why'd you take it off?" Sofia asks and Michael grows red with embarrassment and irony.

"Because I didn't want to lose it."

Throwing her head back, Sofia bursts into laughter, the joyous sound filling the entire scuba shop. Michael does not find it as hilarious as she does. He watches her restock the masks in the front of their store before asking Lincoln, "Do you think if I call Jorge he'll know what I did with it?"

"I'd call him fast," Lincoln replies, nodding towards the front door of the shop. Sara's just arrived to relieve Sofia of her shop duties for the day and she sends Michael a grin he can't return.

"Hey," She greets him warmly, pulling him aside a bit. "You want to tell me why I just found this in the sand?"

There, glinting in the sunlight in the palm of her hand, is his wedding ring. He stares at it, dumbfounded, as she asks, "You trying to escape from me, Scofield?"

Michael plucks it from her grasp, slides it back on his finger and feels instantly at peace. "Never."

**06- bronze medal**

It's late; too late to still be awake and much too late to be swapping their childhood memories, but alas, here they are. They're in Amsterdam and they're far too jetlagged to sleep, anyway. It had started with just a simple, offhanded comment, but the conversation had clearly instigated something. Michael's learning more about Sara then he'd ever expected to and he wishes he had more to share in return. The majority of his childhood memories consist of moving from foster home to foster home, trying to compensate for Lincoln's rash behavior and working his ass off to prove he was better than his past might suggest. Sara, on the other hand, had had both of her parents, at least for a while, anyway, but still somehow managed to have a lonelier life than he had.

"This one time, there was this equestrian competition; some tournament of champions thing, I don't know," Sara smiles fondly at the memory. "I'd been taking lessons for maybe a month but my Dad still thought it was a great idea to enter me."

"Wait, let me get this straight," Michael says. "You were an equestrian star, too?"

"I would hardly call myself a star," Sara disagrees. "But I was the governor's daughter; I had to keep up the appearance. Sailing, playing the piano, tennis and equestrian- all part of the package. I even took ballet for a while, but that _really_ wasn't for me."

He chuckles. "Okay. Go on."

"So I was really nervous because, obviously, I barely had any experience. The day before, I was shaking so hard I fell off my horse. I sprained my wrist trying to catch myself," She laughs slightly, as if amused by her clumsiness, but Michael's eyes widen. "I didn't tell my Dad. I just kind of iced it and kept going."

"Isn't that dangerous?" Michael asks worriedly.

"Probably. But I wasn't a doctor, back then," She grins. "Anyway, the tournament came and went and my horse wouldn't jump over the final hurdle no matter how hard I tried to get him to. I came in dead last. And I knew that I was going to disappoint my father so I was dreading going to find him. But he found me instead and I guess he could see that I was being avoidant; like I was upset with myself, or something."

"And he took my bronze medal and he kind of polished it a little bit," Sara continues. "And he said, 'You didn't come in last, Sara. You came in _third_ and there's always room for improvement.' I don't know if he thought that was reassuring, and looking back on it, it really wasn't. But in the moment, it just made me feel so much better. He was always doing that; he constantly did things that never ceased to shock me. And they weren't always good things; in fact, they were _rarely_ ever good. But… I don't know. I guess I just miss that."

Michael's quiet a while, taking it all in. Finally, in an effort to keep it light, he asks, "Did you ever get better at equestrian?"

Sara laughs, tears of mirth welling her eyes. "No. No, I never did."

And then the moment is gone and they're back to telling stories, one by one.

**07- the various blood types**

They're not sure how it happens, but their son's blood type turns out to be AB-. They find out moments after his birth and the doctor goes on and on about how it's the rarest blood type in the world. Only about .6% of the world's population has an AB- blood type, the doctor informs them, and thus, it makes their son a prime candidate for donating blood; of course, he'll have to grow and mature and gain about a hundred pounds, first. This somehow makes their son's birth all the more miraculous; he's tiny, only a few hours old, and already has the potential of a wonderful, free life ahead of him.

Sara hadn't known her blood type until she'd gotten pregnant. She's A+, like most of the rest of world. It's the most common blood type and yet, she still hadn't known it, because there had never been an occasion for her to have to know it. But she had known Michael's; there was a time, and it seems like a lifetime ago, that all she'd known about Michael Scofield resided on a sheet of paper in his file on her desk. She'd known his parents were absentee, that he'd graduated with a master's degree from a great school and that he'd making a decent salary. She'd known his address and his height and weight and his birthday. She'd known he was a diabetic, even though he'd been faking it, and she'd known his blood type, because you can't fake that- O-.

O- is not that much more common than AB- and it's far more selective. It's the universal donor for a reason; if Michael were to donate blood, hypothetically, anyone could receive it and benefit from it. On the contrary, if Michael were ever in a position where he needed blood, the only type he could take would be his own, O-. He can only give; he cannot receive. Sara thinks it's so telling of his personality; he'll willingly lay down his life for those he cares about and does not think twice before sacrificing his own safety, security and freedom for someone else's. It was why he went to prison in the first place; it was why he had knelt in the dirt and confessed to a murder he didn't commit.

It's what makes him such a remarkable human being and half the reason why she'd fallen in love with him in the first place.

**08- ah, the wonders of…**

Michael wakes up to the sunlight on his face and an empty bed. They've been living in Costa Rica precisely two weeks and still, he hasn't gotten used to the uninhibited sunlight, the lapping of the ocean's waves and their amazing panoramic island views. He has, however, gotten used to the lack of responsibility and the lazy mornings lounging in bed; he's gotten used to waking up to Sara, at least, and therefore, the empty bed beside him is slightly alarming. He dresses quickly and begins to wander throughout the apartment. There's burnt bacon on the stove and an egg yolk dripping from its cracked shells on the counter. Michael's confused for only a moment, but then he can hear movement in the bathroom and suddenly it all makes sense. When he pushes the door open, she's crouching before the toilet and looking absolutely dismal.

"I wanted to make us breakfast," Sara says. "Turns out, I can no longer handle the smell of meat… Or the sight of eggs."

Michael chuckles. "Ah, morning sickness. I was wondering when that was going to rear its ugly head."

"I was hoping it wasn't going to," Sara replies, standing slowly and reaching for her toothbrush. "As if the back pain and the fatigue and the headaches weren't enough."

He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. "Anything I can do for you? Other than clean up the eggs and the bacon?"

"No, thank you," She smiles gratefully. "I'll manage."

Just then, there are two sharp knocks on their front door and before either of them can answer, Lincoln bounds in, a shit-eating grin on his face and a small bag in his hand. "You guys will never believe what I just bought."

"Something tells me you're going to let us know," Michael replies, heading into the kitchen to dispose of their ruined breakfast as Sara meets Lincoln in the front room.

"You're damn right I am," Lincoln says. "I just bought your kid his first outfit."

"You went clothes shopping?" Sara asks in disbelief. "_Baby_ clothes shopping?"

"It was worth it," Lincoln nods and hands over the bag. "Look, I didn't have time to get it gift-wrapped; it's too good. Consider it an early shower gift."

"This I've got to see," Michael retorts, watching as Sara reaches into the bag and peels back the tissue paper.

It's a bright orange onesie sleeper and it's made to look like a prison jumpsuit. There's a prisoner ID number and everything across the upper left chest. Splayed across the middle of the onesie is a message reading, "I just did 9 months on the inside"; there's even a tally marking carved from chalk. Lincoln obviously thinks it's the greatest thing ever, but Michael's not so sure. They'd moved to Costa Rica to escape the public's eye, to start anew, to be able to walk down the streets freely without people recognizing them for the bunch of ex-cons they were. Advertising their baby as a convict isn't really on Michael's priority list. But he glances over at Sara and completely rethinks this.

"Oh my God," She's laughing so hard she can hardly catch her breath. "Oh my God, I love it so much. I mean, it shouldn't be funny; really, it shouldn't. But it's just… Oh my God."

Lincoln grins. "I _knew_ you'd love it! I knew it! Mike, isn't it great?"

He can't say _he_ loves it, but it's certainly brightened Sara's day. She loves it and he loves her, so Michael will try his best to see the humor in the situation. "Yeah. Yeah, it's great."

**09- dictionary**

The only book currently in their Costa Rican villa is a dusty old Webster's Dictionary. They had moved here so hastily following their exoneration that they hadn't been able to gather their belongings from home. Sara's not sure her belongings are still there anyway; when she'd been incarcerated the first time, the city had impounded her car and then, after eight months on the run, she's sure they'd dumped her belongings and sold her apartment. She wonders what ever became of her clothes, her pots and pans, her furniture and all her photographs and memories; she wonders if someone new is living there, now, and if they know who used to inhabit those walls. She wishes she could say she cares enough to find out, but truthfully, she doesn't.

Michael had said the moment they stepped off the boat that he was done planning every inch of his life, but there's one last order of business he absolutely has no intention of forgetting. He and Lincoln are opening their scuba shop, no questions asked. The two have been in meetings all day; first with the town board to secure a spot, then with funding, then with a scuba supplier and all of it makes Sara's head spin. She hopes it'll work out for them; it's what they'd been planning since the beginning, after all. But she didn't go with them when they'd set off that morning with high hopes and low expectations; she hadn't wanted to intrude on their much-needed brotherly bonding. So instead, she's stuck here with no other companion but a big open house and an old and worn dictionary.

For edification purposes, she picks it up and begins to leaf through it. No one reads a dictionary and if anyone else had been with her, Sara's sure she'd never hear the end of it. But she's anxiously awaiting news about the scuba shop and she still feels uneasy any time she and Michael are separated. She's been with him constantly since they'd been freed weeks ago; it's strange that she isn't, now. Their ordeal is long since over and they don't need to run, don't need to hide, don't need to _panic_ anymore, but still, that leftover paranoia is eating away at her insides and Sara is just as nervous as she's always been. She can't imagine that it'll ever change; General Krantz and The Company and everyone involved will continue to haunt them long after they've all been eliminated.

Sara gets all the way to the Ds before Michael comes home. She's just learned the word _doggerel_, which seems made up and isn't what she'd expect it to mean. When Michael comes through the door, she considers sharing it with him, but then she realizes she'd have to cop to reading the dictionary, and how lame is that, really? She tucks the dictionary back onto the empty bookshelf and waits for him to find her here. When he does, she asks, "Well?"

"Escape Scuba," Michael grins. "That's what we're going to call it."

"They said yes?" She exclaims in surprise. "Congratulations!"

They kiss and they're both smiling so wide, it doesn't last long. She says, "Escape Scuba is a great name."

"Linc came up with it," Michael chuckles. "It's pretty good, right?"

"Yeah," She agrees. "It's perfect."

**10- musical**

It's Sara's thirtieth birthday and it's a big deal even if she doesn't want to make it one. Michael remembers quite fondly how much she hates her birthday and knows it will most likely bring back nothing but unpleasant memories; she had rarely seen her father on her birthday, but now she'll never see him ever again. Now, he isn't visiting because he doesn't want to, but because he _cannot_; Michael's honestly not sure which one is worse. He wants to change her perception of her birthday, because birthdays are supposed to be joyous occasions and not ones meant for melancholy. Lincoln suggests that they invite the whole gang over and throw her a surprise party, but Michael knows that's probably the last thing she'd ever want. It doesn't take long for him to come up with an alternative.

They spend the morning like they do any other morning and each time she asks what he's got planned, because she can _tell_ he's got something up his sleeve, he tells her they're simply going to dinner. He's doing a pretty good job of keeping the secret under wraps, he thinks; she's an expert at reading him, but somehow, she doesn't ever figure out what he's got planned. As the day wanes on and the evening grows closer and closer, Michael suggests they dress for dinner and doesn't give any clues as to what the dress code is. He insists she should dress in whatever makes her feel comfortable and, of course, this only makes choosing an outfit ever harder for her. When she does and they're ready to go, they take a cab to the airport where a pilot greets them both out on the tarmac.

Sara turns to Michael, eyes wide. "What is this?"

"This is our ride to dinner," Michael says casually, taking her hand and leading her onto the airplane.

"Where is this dinner?" She questions in disbelief.

Michael grins. "You'll see."

Dinner happens to be at a rooftop restaurant in New York City, overlooking the glorious Manhattan skyline. It's absolutely breathtaking and outstandingly delicious; the look of awe on Sara's face never leaves and that alone is worth the price of admission. This, of course, isn't a commercial restaurant; therefore, when Michael mentions it's Sara's birthday, they don't get all the wait staff to sing a ridiculous and embarrassing rhyme, nor do they bring her a generic cup of vanilla ice cream with a candle in it. Instead, their waitress brings over a brownie sundae big enough for at least a handful of people to eat and there are three sparklers spouting from the top, one for each decade she'd been alive. It is easily one of the best meals they'd ever had.

They're wandering the streets hand in hand after their dinner; at least, she thinks they're just wandering. Michael, of course, has a destination in mind. Sara says, "Michael, this has been the most amazing night. But you really didn't have to do all of this."

"Of course I did," He disagrees. "It's your birthday and it's a big one whether you like it or not. And I remember how you didn't like it, last year, so… I wanted to show you that birthdays can be fun."

"Thank you," She smiles. "Really. It's been so great."

"Well, it isn't over yet," Michael grins. "We have tickets to a show in about… twenty minutes."

"We do?"

"We do," He confirms. "And if I'm not mistaken, you know every word to this thing? Or so you claim."

Sara gasps. "No. You couldn't have."

"You bet your bottom dollar I did," Michael says as they come to a stop outside the theater. _Annie_ is gleaming in bright, shining lights and the look on Sara's face, now, is indescribable. "What do you say? You ready to go inside?"

She nods, but first reaches upwards and pulls his lips to her own. "I love you so much."

"I love you too, Sara," Michael grins. "Happy birthday."

**11- slight discoloration**

Once upon a time, Sara had gotten a call in the middle of the night about a medical emergency at the prison and when she'd arrived, she'd found the subject of said emergency to be Michael. She wasn't surprised; whatever he'd gotten himself into had cost him two toes and a slew of other minor injuries throughout his time there. When she'd gotten there, however, she was fairly shocked to find Michael writhing in pain on the table, an oozing, searing burn on his left shoulder and no one to administer pain medication. She'd done so, instead, and he was unconscious in moments, long before she could attempt to get the truth out of him, but she was sure he wouldn't have said anything, anyway. It had been, without a doubt, one of the worst burns she'd ever seen and it had taken hours to remove that tiny fragment of cloth that had been embedded within the layers of his skin.

That burn is mostly healed, now, but it still isn't as smooth and even as the rest of his skin. Sara rolls over in bed, coming to rest on her elbows and watches as Michael crosses the room, searching through the dresser for a clean shirt. Her eyes travel up the toned muscles of his back, the delicious ridges of his spine, until they find the discolored patch of skin that used to be a third-degree burn. It's reddish and rough, a bit flaky, but mostly well despite not healing with proper treatment. She watches it move as he reaches for a t-shirt, flex as he pulls it over his head, and then it's gone, hidden beneath a thin layer of cloth as though he wishes to conceal and never to reveal it. When he turns around again, he notices she's watching him and smirks a bit.

"What?"

"Nothing," She smiles innocently. "Are you sure you have to go in today?"

"I wish I didn't," Michael laments. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

He bends over her and connects their lips, pulling back slightly in between to ask, "You were looking at burn, weren't you?"

"Guilty," She grins back. "I can't help it. I wish I had done more to treat it so it doesn't… look like that."

"Does it bother you?" He wonders and she's immediately shaking her head.

"No. No, of course not." Sara disagrees. "Does it bother you?"

"Well, I can't see it. It does feel like I've got a patch of sandpaper on my back," He says and then shrugs. "It's alright. We all have our crosses to bear, don't we?"

Sara thinks of the stripes of discolored skin on her own back and nods slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess we do."

**12- chaos**

The first Thanksgiving they ever host occurs three weeks following their exoneration and even though there are literally only five people in their kitchen, it's complete and utter chaos. Costa Rica, in general, isn't the greatest place to have a Thanksgiving dinner, namely because it's an American holiday and when they'd gone off to the markets a week ago in search of a whole turkey, many people had looked at them as though they were insane for wanting one. Somehow, they'd managed to purchase one, much to everyone's delight; even though they are no longer living in America, they still want to acknowledge their usual traditions to make it feel somewhat like home. All the craziness certainly does this perfectly.

LJ's mashing potatoes on the stove and complaining that he isn't strong enough to remove all of the lumps. He adds a bit of milk and margarine and still can't quite get the color and consistency he's looking for. Sofia cannot for the life of her figure out the handheld can opener and is swearing in Spanish trying to get the cranberry sauce open. When she decides to forego the opener and instead tries to pry it open with a knife, she succeeds, but manages to slice her finger open on the jagged metal and begin to spurt blood all over the countertop. Lincoln is setting the table because he can't cook, but he knocks over a glass of water when he notices Sofia's bleeding and rushes to her aid. Michael's taking the turkey out of the oven and it's hot and the oven mitts are thin and there are two pies, pumpkin and apple, on the counter and in his way.

"Can someone get these pies?" Michael calls aloud, but Lincoln's wrapping Sofia's damaged finger in a wet paper towel and LJ has moved on from the mashed potatoes to the stuffing.

"I've got it," Sara says, abandoning her corn and peas and coming to his aid. She somehow manages to balance one pie in her hand and one on her arm, like a waitress, and the vegetables on the other arm. She turns the corner to place the food on the dining room table, slips a little on the water Lincoln's previously spilled and sends the pumpkin pie careening to the floor.

It lands on the hardwood with a loud splat. The pie plate shatters and the crust crumbles and the pumpkin filling is thick and sticky all over the floor. Sara stares at it in shock; she cannot _believe_ she just let that happen. She spent the better part of the previous day baking these pies and there it goes; all her hard work has just been spilled all over the floor. She looks at the broken glass and the orange filling and for some reason has the strongest urge to laugh. It's really not funny and maybe her pregnancy hormones are already beginning to rage, because any other time she would only be frustrated and angry with herself. But not right now; right now it's actually kind of hilarious.

She feels a presence beside her and when she turns, she finds Michael with the same look on his face she assumes is on hers. "Uh… I don't got it."

"Did you just drop it?" Michael asks and when she nods to confirm this, he begins to laugh. "God, this is a disaster."

"It really is," She chuckles, finding it amusing that he thinks it's as funny as she does. "Well, hopefully no one wanted that one."

He grins. "I'll get you some paper towels. Don't touch the glass."

"Okay," Sara nods. "I'm assuming this is our last Costa Rican Thanksgiving?"

"Yeah," Michael agrees. "Just goes to show you- American holidays need to stay in America."

**13- ramshackle**

When they return from their adventures abroad, Michael and Sara have one more stop they want to make before they return to Costa Rica to settle in. They head to Chicago because they hadn't been since they'd both been arrested almost a year ago, now. For the most part, it hasn't changed. There is nothing that suggests that they had once been fugitives on the run and no one acknowledges them or even realizes that they had returned. No one recognizes them, either, which is the main reason they hadn't returned there in the first place. They consider, for a moment, moving back here, coming back home, but then again, it doesn't really feel like home, anymore. They feel like outsiders, like aliens in their own city, and they know, then, that they've outgrown Chicago just as much as it has outgrown them.

They walk the familiar streets and get a slice of pizza and studiously ignore the route to the prison. They visit Sara's father's grave and Michael tells her he'll give her all the space she needs. But she doesn't need it and she doesn't want it and although they stand there a while and lay a bouquet of flowers beside his headstone, Sara's eyes remain dry and she keeps her composure. Michael's got to hand it to her; he hadn't expected she'd be so calm, especially since he'd suspected she was still reeling from his sudden death. When they finish there, they walk downtown and find his old workplace, that giant building that held his coworkers and a job he'd loved dearly and misses terribly. This, of course, reminds him that his old loft is not too far away and, hey, they're in the neighborhood, after all. Might as well stop by.

Sara doesn't have any interest in seeing her apartment, so they go to his instead. Michael's anticipation is growing and growing as they get closer, but the moment they get there, they find the building in ruins. There is no building, in fact; it's a demolition site, with construction workers in hard hats, a crane and a backhoe. The apartment building where he'd once lived is now nothing more than a pile of rubble and ruins; glass shards from broken windows, bricks from the siding and planks of wood are being collected in a giant green dumpster at the edge of the site. He shouldn't have gotten his hopes up, but part of him had honestly believed that he'd show and somehow, miraculously, all his old belongings would be waiting for him.

"Excuse me," He says, catching the attention of one of the construction workers. "What's going in this space?"

"Not sure," The man shrugs. "Might be some high-rise business, I think."

"And why did they tear the lofts down?" Michael asks.

The man gets a dark look in his eye. "Some con lived here a few years back and people didn't take too kindly to the FBI filling their halls everyday. Didn't make 'em feel very safe; they moved out and the landlord couldn't keep this place filled."

Michael nods slowly. "Thank you."

He shouldn't have expected Chicago to change. He shouldn't have expected his belongings to be waiting for him more than a year later. But he did; he honestly did and he feels foolish, now, for doing so. Sara asks, "Okay, so, what now?"

"Now," Michael sighs. "We go home."

**14- foggy day**

It's an unseasonably chilly morning in January and it's pouring rain when Sara awakens to a thick, rolling fog outside their bedroom window. She peers out onto the beach and can barely see five feet in front of her; she can only assume the winds are whipping the sands and the ocean's waves are high and mighty and treacherous. There's no thunder or lightning; just the steady downpour of almighty, island rain as Sara reluctantly leaves their warm and cozy bed to venture into the kitchen. Once there, she finds Michael haphazardly dressed and shivering at the kitchen table, eyes glazed over as he stares at the illuminated laptop before him. Sara frowns; he'd been in this exact same position when she'd left him for bed the night before.

"Tell me you haven't been here all night," Sara says, taking a side-glance at the thermostat. It's a comfortable 68 degrees in here; he shouldn't be as cold as he is. "Please tell me you got some sleep."

"I haven't," Michael replies. "Been here all night, I mean. I came to bed around two, but I couldn't sleep, so… I have to input these numbers."

She eyes him warily. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," He answers shortly. She disagrees.

Coming to stand beside him, she can almost feel the heat radiating from his body. She bends forward, kisses his forehead and feels as though she's just kissed a furnace. "No, you're not okay. You're burning up. Why didn't you tell me you were sick?"

"I'm not sick," Michael says stubbornly. "I'm okay. I'm a little out of it, but I didn't get any sleep, so…"

"Yeah, you didn't get any sleep because you're sick," Sara sighs. "Go lay down. Linc can input the numbers for the store. It's awful out today; visibility is close to zero. I don't think anyone will be diving anyway."

"Linc did it last time," Michael complains.

"I think he'll understand," Sara says, heading to the bathroom and returning with the thermometer. "Stick this under your tongue and go lay down. I'll make you some tea."

He does as he's told, begrudgingly. Sara fills the teapot with some water, assures it's set to boil on the stove and goes to read the thermometer. It beeps shrilly and when she reads it, she almost balks. "Yeah, 102.4. Try and tell me you're not sick, Michael."

"It's probably just a cold," Michael groans irritably.

"Yeah, it probably is," Sara agrees. "But you still have a fever. I'll be bringing you some Tylenol with your tea."

He yawns. "And my laptop? Those numbers aren't going to input themselves."

She purses her lips. "Don't push it."

Sara fixes herself a bowl of cereal and eats it with one hand, balancing the bowl on the growing dome of her belly- she's getting quite good at that, actually- and shaking out two Tylenol tablets from the plastic container. She can't imagine why she hadn't expected Michael to be a stubborn pain in the ass when he was sick; he'd been almost unbearable when he'd been suffering from his tumor way back when. Pouring the boiling water over the tea bag, she contemplates bringing the laptop with her, but ultimately decides against it. She knows he needs to rest and she will fight him unwaveringly until he does so. He's slumped against the headboard when she returns and quickly downs the pills she's handed him with the tea she's provided.

Maybe the fever's made him delirious enough to forget the laptop, because he doesn't bring it up again. He sips at his tea quietly and watches as she dresses and leaves the room to ready herself. When she returns to ask if he needs anything else, he's fast asleep.

**15- in miniature**

Their son looks exactly like Michael. There has not been a time that Sara has looked at the baby and seen anything else but a miniature version of her husband staring back at her. The baby is an absolute delight and he is nothing like what she expected. He sleeps through the night and calmly tolerates strangers and doesn't scream with even the slightest change. He's just generally a relaxed, easygoing and laidback baby and she and Michael couldn't have asked for a better first child to ease their way into parenthood. He's smiley and serene and Sara could honestly lose herself is his big blue eyes the same way she does in Michael's.

The thing the strikes her the most about their son is the look he gets on his face every time he's entered a new situation. His brow furrows and his eyes squint a little and dart in every direction, as if surveying each possible threat to his happiness and tranquility. When he determines that there is nothing to fear, he relaxes mostly, but still remains the slightest bit tense, as if ready to strike or let his parents know when danger is about. It reminds Sara so much of how Michael is, how calculating and observant he's always been, and how it has only increased tenfold since they'd married and started their family. The baby is only a few months old, barely able to sit without support let alone think for himself, but Sara sometimes feels that she had absolutely no part in his making. He'll glance up at her and grin and it'll melt Sara's heart each and every time.

Like father, like son.

**16- Mesozoic**

When they finally arrive in Costa Rica, Sofia and LJ are there to greet them at the pier. Lincoln is, of course, beyond grateful to see them and expresses his desperate need to converse with anyone who isn't Michael or Sara. Michael understands; a week long of being the third wheel must've worn on him. They go their separate ways, although they aren't going far; Michael and Sara's villa is only about a few miles down the beach from Lincoln's. It's dusty and empty when they get inside; understandably so, they were supposed to be here months ago. Many unplanned sidetracks had prevented their arrival, but they're finally here and who needs furniture, really? They've got an armful of pillows and a stack of blankets; they'll manage until morning.

There's not much in their new home, but, oddly, there is a television. It's built into the wall with stacks of shelves framing the screen, making it nearly impossible for the previous owners to have taken it with them. It's growing darker by the minute and they have no way to cook dinner; there's a stove, but there isn't a refrigerator and there's plenty of counter space, but no kitchen table or chairs. Sara jokes that they should make a visit to IKEA for some cheap, DIY furniture and Michael grins at her resourcefulness. Instead, they grab dinner from a place down the road advertising tapas and sangria and head home to their empty little house with nothing to do.

"So where are we getting furniture from, in all seriousness?" Sara wonders, swiping at a cobweb on the overhead lamp. "It's pretty bare in here."

"I didn't plan that far ahead," Michael answers. "But I'm sure we can find somewhere to furnish this place."

"There's something you didn't plan?" Sara teases. "I'm amazed."

He grins. "I didn't see the need, back then. I do now."

Sara laughs a bit and begins to arrange the pillows and blankets in a sort of U shape in front of the television against the wall. She slips off her sweatshirt and shoes, lets down her hair and settles into the middle of her man-made couch. "That's okay. This is good enough."

Michael plucks the television remote off of the entertainment center and settles in beside her. They haven't paid for cable yet, either, so they're only receiving basic channels. Their options are limited; the news, a Spanish soap opera or _Jurassic Park_. They choose the dinosaurs for obvious reasons, even though it's dubbed over in Spanish without subtitles. Still, it's better than the alternatives. Michael wraps an arm around Sara and she snuggles into him and, oddly, sitting on the floor watching an old movie they can't understand in a dusty, empty house is strangely relaxing, strangely comforting. It's a welcome change of pace from the warehouse or that stuffy condo in Miami.

"I haven't seen this movie in years," Michael says and Sara nods her agreement.

"It's almost as old as we are, at this point."

"_Dios crea a __los dinosaurios__. __Dios destruye __dinosaurios. __Dios__ crea al hombre__. __El hombre __destruye __a Dios__. __El hombre crea __dinosaurios_."

"_Los dinosaurios __comen __hombre.__Mujer __hereda la __tierra_."

"I guess we should get used to everything being in Spanish, shouldn't we?" He wonders.

Sara nods. "_Sí_."

**17- how do you spell that again?**

On a sunny Tuesday morning before she's due at the scuba shop, Sara gathers all of her personal forms of identification- her license, her passport, her social security card- and heads to the US Consulate. She knows it's going to take a while; it's never an easy process even in America, so trying to get this accomplished outside of the United States is sure to be no easy feat. There's already an impossibly long line by the time she gets there and she waits somewhat impatiently for the better part of an hour before a receptionist is able to see her. From there, she goes through all the necessary paperwork and documents before getting to sit down with an actual representative from the embassy. A little while longer, now, and then she'll be free.

The woman, an over-tanned blonde, is scratching down Sara's information onto an official piece of legal documentation. She writes an S and then pauses and glances up to ask, "Could you spell that for me one more time, please? I just don't want to get it wrong."

"S-C-O-F-I-E-L-D," Sara says, voice even. "And before you ask, yes, we're exactly who you think we are."

The blonde hesitates before nodding too quickly and scribbling down the name. She files the document and smiles exaggeratedly. "Okay. Your new forms of identification will be with you in about thirty days."

"Great," Sara smiles politely. "Thank you so much."

She leaves the consulate with a grin on her face and a new bounce in her step. Humming with excitement, Sara heads directly to the scuba shop, pushing open the jingling front door and waving a quick hello to Sofia at the counter, who indicates Michael's in the back room. She finds him in no time, unloading a few boxes of wetsuits, and throws her arms around him the moment his hands are free. She can feel his body shake with laughter and it only makes her grin even wider. "Hey there, Scofield."

"Well hello to you to, Tancredi," Michael says.

Sara pulls back a bit, shaking her head. "Ah no, that's not my name anymore, sorry. I think you may have me confused with someone else."

Michael's face melts from confusion to pure shock. "You said you weren't going to change your name."

"I know," She beams. "I wanted to surprise you."

"Consider me surprised," He grins and catches her mouth in a swift kiss.

"I love you, Mr. Scofield," Sara tells him breathlessly.

Michael contentedly agrees, "I love you too, Mrs. Scofield."

**18- mercy and hospitality**

After three straight days of rain and cloudy grey skies over England, Michael and Sara wake up one morning to the sun daring to shine through their great open window in their London hotel. The rain honestly hadn't stopped them the past few days; they'd still gone out to all the tourist-ridden attractions, such as the London Eye, Big Ben and Westminster Abbey. They'd taken a stroll through a muddy Hyde Park and had lunch with the Peter Pan statue, revisited history in the British Museum and the Museum of London and they'd taken a riverboat ride along the Thames. Today, however, the hotel is sponsoring a bus trip to the English countryside and since they're all for adventure, they sign up.

They travel to Scotney Castle, first, and revel in the beautiful old manor home and the outstandingly beautiful flora surrounding it. They also learn that the castle is said to be haunted by a servant who'd drowned on the property and now stalks the halls, dripping water on the floors as he passes by. It's eerie to say the least and they're eager to move on. When they do, it's to Bodiam Castle, a more medieval-looking one, with a drawbridge and a moat. It's quite ancient and pretty amazing, actually; they're able to climb the turrets and look out over the countryside, the rolling hills and the fresh green grass the lambs in the distance are feeding on. When they climb down, they walk through the cool walls of the castle and feel as though they've been transported to the era of knights in shining armor, jousting and kings and queens, sitting upon thrones.

When they grow a bit tired of the castle, they find their bus has left them behind.

"Our bus was the white one, wasn't it?" Sara wonders and Michael nods slowly.

"Sure was."

"And we do what now?"

"Couldn't tell you," Michael frowns. "Guess we're staying here."

They go to the parking lot, sure they're missing something and that they've mistaken their bus for another. Alas, this is not the case; their bus has definitely left for the journey back to London. As they're contemplating what to do next, an older couple in their late fifties or early sixties overhears their conversation and catches their attention. "Excuse me, I couldn't help but overhear you. Your bus has left, eh?"

"Yes," Michael confirms. "Unfortunately, we're staying in London and were just here for a day trip and now we're stuck here."

"I'm sure we can get a cab," Sara says. "Although, it's about four hours to London, so we'll be broke by the time we get there."

"Well, you're in luck, then," The older woman smiles. "Tom and I own a bed and breakfast just twenty minutes away. You're more than welcome to come home with us."

"Thank you," Sara accepts graciously. "But we couldn't impose on-"

"Nonsense!" Tom shouts. "Americans, aren't you? You know how pricey those cabs can get? And with your luck you'll end up with some cabbie that'll talk your ear off, I'll tell you. Come on, we've plenty of room."

"We're not going to take no for an answer," The woman beams. "So don't you give it to us."

"Well, alright," Michael smiles. "But just for the night."

"Of course, lad," Tom grins back. "I'll drive you straight into London tomorrow morning myself, I will."

"Thank you so much," Sara repeats. "You're too kind. We really appreciate it."

Their bed and breakfast is cozy and warm and inviting and when they return to London in the morning, the city is nothing compared to the relaxation of the countryside.

**19- solipsist**

"So it's this idea that only my mind, since I'm the thinker, is the thing that truly exists," LJ explains, pointing at his textbook for emphasis. "Therefore, you all don't exist and I'm only creating you by thinking of you with my mind."

Lincoln shoots him a look. "Huh?"

"Since the external world and minds other than my own can't be known, then they don't exist," LJ rephrases. "The only thing that does is my mind. Isn't that fascinating?"

"It actually is," Sara agrees, lifting the baby into the high chair.

Lincoln still disagrees, shaking his head. "See, this philosophical shit is exactly the reason why I would've never made it in college."

"Can you not use that word in front of him?" Sara pleads, nodding towards her son. "He's a sponge these days."

"Sorry," Lincoln smirks. "Forgot I was on Sesame Street."

"Dad, it's an elective," LJ rolls his eyes. "I took it because it sounded interesting. Also, it's really easy; we spend every class just thinking about whether or not things will still exist if we don't acknowledge them."

Lincoln frowns. "You lost me, kid."

"Don't feel bad, LJ," Michael teases, grabbing a stack of plates from the cabinet before him. "You aren't the first to outsmart him."

"Yesterday he asked me to spell millennium," Sofia chuckles. "English isn't even my first language, _cariña_."

"Alright, sure, make fun of the guy who never went to college, but I only skipped it so _you_ could go. You're welcome," Lincoln grumbles, pointing at Michael. "And if I hadn't, he wouldn't have gone and none of us would be here right now."

They all pause a moment, not sure if he's truly offended, before LJ says, "Maybe _none_ of us are here right now and I'm just imagining all of you."

Lincoln tries to shoot his son a stern look but fails and laughs instead. "No philosophizing at the dinner table."

**20- life cycle of a fire**

One month passes and then six. Soon, it's been an entire year since she married Michael in that simple, perfect ceremony on the beach and it doesn't seem like it could possibly have been that long. She can still remember that very first day she ever set her eyes upon him; he'd been giving her that troublesome look she knew all too well and she hadn't been willing to give him an inch. But he'd been different and she'd known that from the very start; the moment he'd spoken of Gandhi and his fierce love for his older brother, the moment he'd saved her life during the prison riot, the moment Sara had learned he wasn't a criminal, not really, had set that in stone. And that moment he'd first set his cerulean eyes on hers, that moment he'd first teased and joked with her, that moment he'd first shot her that infamous smile of his, had instigated the tiniest of sparks.

The rest of his time in prison had only served to fan the flames. She realized about halfway through, about the time she found out about his wife, unfortunately, that she was falling for him and she tried desperately to turn herself away. But things got complicated. His wife wasn't really his _wife_; at least, not at _all_ in the traditional sense. Then his brother was all but fried in the electric chair and then he wasn't; it was emotionally trying and _of course_ she was there for him. And then, even still, he'd had a psychotic break (granted, it was fake, but she hadn't known that then) and he'd kissed her in the infirmary and she was pretty much done. By the time he'd escaped and left Fox River and her behind, she could no longer deny that she was helplessly in love with him and it made her feel even more like the failure her father had insisted she was.

But those flames never turned to embers; if anything, being on the run at first alone and then with him had only caused the fire to burn and rage even harder than before. She felt as though someone had stuck her with a hot poker, as though someone had turned her insides outward, because she was feeling everything much deeper and much more intensely than before. She loved him, she _told_ him she loved him, and he'd said he felt the very same; this had done nothing but make the fire dip and jump precipitously and it wasn't long before the sparks leapt and caught them ablaze. They burned; they burned _badly_ and there was a time that Sara thought she would never recover.

But it's been a year since they've married, over a year since they've met, and yet they're still here, mostly unscathed. They can cover their burns, both literal and metaphorical, and they can heal with time and with each other. They've long since learned how to control their fire and how to be sure it doesn't get out of their hands. With the right care, they'll be just fine; not too much air, just the right amount of kindling, and look where it's gotten them- the healthy, slow-burning flame that still lights Michael's eyes aglow each time he sees her and still brings that familiar warm feeling to Sara's insides whenever she's with him. If Sara could go back in time, she would like to erase some of the heartache, but she mostly wouldn't change a thing. She needed the pain, needed the burns, to learn how to grow appropriately. She hadn't been ready, before, but now, the flames are long and slow and she and Michael are stronger than ever.

**21- profanity**

Michael's hosing down the decks of the boat and is not sure how he got on cleanup duty, since Lincoln usually takes care of it; it is his boat, after all. Some days he feels like the ocean will never end; some days this is a good thing and other days, it feels just as confining as his prison cell or the dull grey walls of that warehouse back in L.A. Mostly, he's ready to be back on steady land, to plant his feet in the ground and get off of this stuffy sail boat, because he paradoxically doesn't want to run anymore and he wants to travel the world. It's an endless dilemma. He knows he and Sara are going to settle down in Costa Rica a while, at least long enough to establish a home and a new life together, but then perhaps they'll go off on their own. Or maybe they'll just stay put. Either way, anything's better than this tiny boat and its endlessly dirty decks.

"_Fuck!_"

The noise startles him because Lincoln's still below deck and he'd never heard that kind of language emanating from Sara. When he glances up, he can see her on the other side of the boat, by the anchor, clutching her right hand to her chest, her face scrunched in pain. Michael drops his cleaning supplies and comes to her aid, watching as she inspects her hand before reapplying direct pressure to it and muttering something incoherently. He glances around her, trying to find the source of her discomfort, but comes up short. When she notices he's by her side, she frowns and shows him her hand, which is turning a bright, lobster red. "I smashed my hand against the anchor. No big deal."

He's still looking at her in shock and she shoots him a look. "What?"

Michael smirks. "Nothing, it's just… Such a dirty word to come out of such a pretty mouth."

Sara rolls her eyes, a smile evident on her face. "Surprised? I'm not perfect, Michael."

"I never said you were," He replies. "I've just never heard you use that kind of language before."

"You haven't, have you?" Sara asks suggestively. "I know words a lot dirtier than that."

"Who are you?" Michael asks teasingly, his grin growing wider and wider.

Sara smiles devilishly. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

**22- naprapathy**

Sara makes crepes with fresh strawberries, blueberries, whipped cream and sprinkles for Michael's birthday. She intends on bringing them to him on a tray, breakfast in bed style, but he's sneakier than she takes him for and ends up walking into the kitchen just as she's finished dousing the crepes with the multicolored birthday sprinkles. The kitchen's a complete mess; the griddle is still sizzling on the stove, there's whipped cream pretty much everywhere and she still can't find that blueberry she dropped a good ten minutes ago. She doesn't really mind; the baby is in the bouncy seat on the kitchen table and is giggling and cooing away to take her mind off of the disaster she's made. When she's ready, she tops the crepe with a maraschino as if it were a sundae and turns to bring it to Michael- whom she runs into instead.

"You know how to make crepes?" He asks instantly as a form of a greeting and she chuckles a bit.

"Yes and I was going to bring them to you in bed, but you just can't cooperate with me, can you?" She hands the plate over but not before greeting him properly with a kiss. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you," He grins back, dropping a kiss on their son's forehead as well before taking a seat at the table. "Good call on getting me to take today off. What was I thinking, wanting to work on my birthday?"

"I don't know," Sara replies, removing the baby from the table and lifting him into her arms instead. "But that's not all I've got up my sleeve. Finish your breakfast because Uncle Linc and Aunt Sofia are taking the baby and then you and I have a little something planned."

Michael nods. "That sounds good to me."

Following their quick detour to Lincoln and Sofia's villa, they head down the beach, hand in hand. The sand grows untracked and the area gets more and more secluded and remote. Soon, they're miles away from their house and the people sunning themselves and bathing in the surf are just tiny dots on the horizon behind them. Finally, they reach a small cabana with two pristine white cozy-looking beds. Two attendants line each table and Michael looks more confused than ever. Sara chuckles a bit and says, "Are you surprised?"

"I'm confused," He corrects. "What is this?"

"We're getting a couples massage on the beach," Sara clarifies as though it should be fairly obvious. "You've been complaining about being overly stressed for weeks now and I could always use one."

"That is just about the best idea I've ever heard," Michael says, grinning. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," She smiles back, gesturing towards the cabana. "Shall we?"

"We shall."

They make themselves comfortable on the tables and immediately get lost in the soothing sound of the ocean's waves lapping against the shore and the rhythmic movements working all their strained muscles. Michael reaches over and claims Sara's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She grins and doesn't let go.

**23- as opposed to**

It's a little after one a.m. when Michael hears the first sharp cry. He's awakened instantly, startled from a vivid dream of memories past, and he's immediately ready to spring into action. They've been compromised and must find a newer, safer location; perhaps Wyatt is hot on their tail and maybe the next Scylla card is right under their nose. But then Michael realizes that all of that is in the past; he's in Costa Rica, he's safe and everyone he cares about is safe, too. The cry he'd previously heard is not one of pain or anguish, but simply one of need. It's his son, his beautiful miracle of a son, and he's simply due for one of his late-night feedings. It takes Michael a moment or so to really grasp that everything's okay, however; he'd gone so long without this being true.

Sara is in a deep sleep beside him, burrowed beneath the sheets and the duvet in a hollow cavern of warmth. She doesn't stir as he carefully climbs out of bed and tucks the blankets more firmly back around her; she'd gotten the baby the last time, it's his turn now. There's a bottle waiting expectantly in the door of the refrigerator and Michael snatches it and runs it under some warm water until it's nearly at room temperature. It's as if the newborn can tell his father is on his way, because his cries turn simply to a bit of fussing before he quiets. Michael scoops him from the bassinet, settles him in the crook of his arm and sits in the rocking chair in the corner of his son's room. The baby is sucking eagerly on the bottle, his eyes wide and milky, searching his father's face like an explorer of a new land.

Michael smiles tiredly. "That's all you wanted, huh, bud? You're just hungry."

His eyes begin to still and then droop slightly as Michael hears movements in the next room. In moments, Sara's standing in the doorway, hardly awake and yawning. "I heard the baby."

"I got him," Michael tells her. "I'm a hands-on Dad, remember?"

A smile grows slowly on her face. "If I recall, you told me you were merely going to keep the bed warm."

"I did, so you should be doing the same for me," He jokes. "I bet it's growing cold, now."

"I'll get on that, then," Sara promises, but pauses and turns back to say, "You look great with him."

"Yeah, he's a stud," Michael responds, toying. "He makes great arm candy."

Sara says, "That's not what I meant."

Michael nods, thinking of nosebleeds and tumors and how he almost never met his son, and replies, "I know what you meant."

**24- framed**

A while back, the only photo of Michael that Sara had had been his mug shot and it isn't like she got to keep that one. She's not sure she'd want to, although it isn't because he hadn't looked good; on the contrary, he'd somehow managed to look just as attractive getting arrested as he does in everyday life. But still, she hadn't had any photographic evidence to capture the moment they first connected or the time they were reunited at Bruce's house and to this day she wishes she had a photo of the time he'd told her he knew she was pregnant. She doesn't need them, really; it's not like she'll ever forget any of these moments. But she wants them because to be able to glance at a picture and relive the precious memories they'd shared is a luxury they'd never been accustomed to.

It's something they're accustomed to now, though. There are photographs in picture frames all over the house. There's one from their wedding that Sucre had taken with his camera phone over the fireplace. There's a photo of Michael and Sara and her growing dome of a belly and beside that one, there's a picture of their son on the day he was born, wrinkly and pink and positively perfect. Sara wishes she had pictures of their lives before this one, but she's also glad she doesn't have them. She'll never forget who they were or where they've been, but this is the life that she wants to look back upon and remember fondly when she's old and grey, she realizes. She'll look at the glistening of Michael's eyes and the brightness of her own smile and the childlike innocence of their son and she'll be brought back instantly to her youth and the gratifying feeling of absolute freedom.

There is one picture that is her absolute favorite, however. It's in a gold frame and it hangs in the foyer for everyone to see as they enter their home. It was taken a week prior at their son's first birthday party; he's wearing a plaid, short-sleeved shirt, khaki pants and a little white bow tie. Somehow, they'd even gotten him to wear a party hat, although it didn't last much longer after the picture was taken. There's chocolate cake and green and blue frosting smearing his chubby cheeks and even caking his hair, but he's grinning the biggest, goofiest smile for the camera. Michael and Sara are on either side of him, kissing both his cheeks even though they ended up with their own frosting mustaches. It's timeless; Sara's sure she could stare at the photo for the rest of her life.

She'll never forget her son's first birthday; that much is a given. But there will a come a time, and it will come too quickly, when he's no longer as small as he is now. And therefore, this framed snapshot will always take her back.

**25- fork in the road**

In order to own their scuba shop and instruct others in the safety precautions involved in diving, Lincoln and Michael must go through daylong seminars, CPR and first-aid training and PADI certification. In the first training session in which they'd learn life-saving skills, their instructor asks them to picture the hardest decision they'd ever had to make. Once they have one in mind, the instructor then gives them a hypothetical situation- a diver has just entered shark infested water in which there are dorsal fins visible in the distance, but there is also a bather drowning a few yards off the beach. Who do you choose? Who do you save first? And, what happens if you have to make the unbearable choice to allow one of them to die?

The instructor then says that he understands that most people have never had to make that kind of decision before and everyone nods. Michael is the only one who doesn't. The hypothetical situation the instructor presented reminds him very much of only months earlier, when he'd had to make the excruciating choice between his brother and the love of his life. Lincoln had been the drowning bather, slowly dying from a perforated lung, and Sara had been the diver, entering a dangerous situation with many vicious creatures waiting to prey upon her. This of course makes Michael the helpless lifeguard; unsure of who to save first, of who to choose, because both were on a one-way ticket to a sure death and he had equal claim to them both.

To this day, he has never had to make a harder decision in his life. He's sure that's why the opportunity presented itself to him; if either Christina or Krantz had known the other one had leverage on him, Lincoln and Sara would surely both be dead, there's no doubt about it. He remembers every last detail of that day; Lincoln's slowed breathing and weak, ragged speech, Sara's terrified look and the giant bruise on her cheek from T-Bag's menacing fists, the nagging feeling growing within him that he wasn't making the right choice either way. When he'd spoken with Lincoln and tried to find him, he'd felt guilty that he wasn't making enough effort to get to Sara. But when he'd gotten her, he'd felt equally as guilty that he hadn't done enough to save Lincoln. Guilt had certainly been an unwelcomed accomplice throughout Michael's entire time as con/ex-con. He certainly doesn't miss it.

It's not to say that he is now guilt-free. There will most likely never be a day that goes by that Michael doesn't think about the endless amount of lives that had been lost at his own hands. But the two people he cares the most about in this world are alive and well and that's certainly given him a bit of a peace of mind. He'd been faced with an impossible decision that had no right answer (_choose your brother and your girlfriend and child die; choose your girlfriend and your brother dies; if Christina and Krantz find out they both die_). Even still, Michael had somehow managed to come out of the other side and he had somehow managed keep them both. He'll spend the rest of his life being eternally grateful for that fact and will never have to make a choice with such vicious outcomes ever again.

**26- artistic**

It's an unseasonably warm afternoon in the direct middle of Sara's pregnancy and they've decided to paint the nursery. They don't know the sex of the baby yet and they're refusing to find out; they want to be surprised even though Sara has a very strong feeling it's a boy. Either way, they've chosen a neutral cream paint and a soft green for making their nursery into a jungle. That was the plan, anyway. Michael, however, gets paranoid about the paint and the fumes and the pregnancy and insists she stay away. Sara's the doctor and knows that there's very little exposure to noxious fumes from paint nowadays; that was a problem way back when that's been mostly solved by now. But she agrees anyway and simply watches from the doorway.

"So we're painting the molding and the chair rail white," Michael clarifies, as he finishes lining the room with blue painter's tape. "The rest of the walls will be green?"

"Yes," Sara agrees. "And I think there should be a tree in the corner."

"A tree?" Michael asks in surprise. "You want a tree?"

"It's a jungle," Sara shrugs. "Shouldn't there be a tree? I think there should be some animals, too. A giraffe, maybe. A tiger. Maybe some monkeys."

"Who do you think I am, Picasso?" Michael questions and Sara laughs. "You'll be lucky if I can get you your tree."

"You've got a steady hand, I think you'll be fine," She tells him. "And I could've helped, but you've got this stupid 'no painting while pregnant' rule."

"It's not stupid, it's healthy," Michael corrects. "I'll paint the walls green, but then we're going to have to get some decals or something because there's no way I can paint you a zoo."

"Decals?" Sara exclaims. "How cheap is that?"

"Our baby is not Simba, Sara," He says. "I don't think he or she needs to feel like they're on a safari."

She's laughing when she says, "Okay, okay, a compromise. We'll get a couple small decals for over the crib or something. We could also get a few of those framed pictures of animals, the colorful ones. You know what I'm talking about?"

"I do."

"But I want my tree," Sara states adamantly and Michael laughs, this time.

"I can't make any promises," He tells her. "But I'll see what I can do."

**27- mythical**

There's a book of children's myths and legends that their son is absolutely enamored with. Sara reads him a new story each night and delights in all his little facial expressions as she turns the pages and points out new terms to him. There are fairies twinkling with glittery wings atop toadstools, unicorns glistening brightly in the majestic evening and dragons breathing fire at their unsuspecting victims. They're silly stories, really; nothing more than tales of knights in shining armor saving their trapped and beautiful damsels in distress. Every now and then, some form of mischief will get thrown in the way in the form of a pixie or a witch, but mostly, they all end with a happily ever after. The baby loves looking at the different colors, though, so each night, without fail, Sara will pick a story she isn't sick of yet and read it to her son.

"What'll it be tonight, bud?" Sara wonders aloud. "The Princess and the Pea? The Incredible Tale of Sir Thomas and the Dragon?"

"I like The Frog Prince," Michael comments as he enters the room. "That's a good one."

"Oh, that is a good one," Sara agrees. "And I'm not sick of that one yet."

They curl up on the floor in front of the crib, each of them taking turns reading a page and, of course, fully committing to the story by giving each character a different voice. Their voices croak and ribbit with the frog, grow light and airy for the princess and deep and husky for the prince. The baby's eyes grow wide with amazement at all of the brightly colored pictures and he giggles and coos and babbles in all the right spots. The princess, of course, kisses the frog and turns him into a dashing, handsome prince, whom she marries and lives happily ever after with as per the usual. Michael and Sara announce the story's over and clap appropriately as the baby mimics them and does the same. He laughs and squeals and claps, thoroughly all too wound up to go to sleep.

"Thanks for helping me tell the story," Sara says and Michael nods.

"Of course," He agrees. "Anything for my little man."

They tuck him in and turn on the mobile, watching as the lions and elephants and zebras dance in circles a while before turning out the light. Their son fights sleep for a while but soon he drifts off and they're sure he's off dreaming about something just as majestic as the story they've just told.

**28- infra dignitatem (**_**beneath one's dignity**_**)**

Michael's not sure how it happens. One minute, they're enjoying New York at Christmas time and the next, they're tensing and paranoid like The Company is still hot on their trail. One minute, Michael makes a joke and Sara's laughing with her whole body and the next, there's a tension in the air that hasn't been present since their early days on the Scylla team. One minute, it's just the two of them lost in the anonymity of one of the largest cities in the world and the next, they're face to face with none other than Paul Kellerman. His grip on Sara's hand tightens unconsciously as if he's trying to silently communicate with her that everything's still okay, that he'll protect her with everything he's got.

Paul shoots them both that awful million-dollar smile of his and says, "If I had a dollar for all the times I thought I'd see you two, I'd have precisely one dollar."

It's that kind of smarmy, sarcastic, faux everyone's-best-friend attitude that makes Michael realize he'd still like to throttle him. He may have been the one that led them to exoneration, but he'd also been the one who'd tried to smother Lincoln on the side of the road and who'd left Sara to drown in a motel in New Mexico. He had worked for The Company for years and had made their lives absolutely miserable. Michael doesn't know what he's doing here in New York City and he doesn't care. He wants to beat Paul's face in for all the trouble he's evoked and the pain he's caused; he wants Paul to feel half as awful as he and Sara and Lincoln had felt all those months ago. He's afraid running into him might push Sara to her limits, but as usual, the resiliency and unwavering inner strength Sara has continues to astound him.

"Hello Paul," She greets him cordially. "How are you?"

"Clearly not as good as you two," He replies, nodding at them. "Married, a kid on the way… _Alive_."

"You're alive," Michael states angrily. "And given everything you've done, you probably shouldn't be."

"Michael," Sara says, a warning. She turns back to Paul and says, "Merry Christmas."

Paul nods. "Yeah, thanks. You too. Say hi to Linc for me, okay?"

"Yeah, I'll do that," Michael growls and then they're on their way. He's still stewing moments later and says, "Sara, Paul's-"

"Michael," She cuts him off, her eyes sincere. "You're better than that. He's not worth it."

"No," Michael disagrees. "I guess not."

**29- argentine**

The last place they go before they return to Costa Rica is Buenos Aires. They'd heard nothing but good things about the city, but the second they arrive, only one thing becomes clear- it's a _serious_ party town and since Sara's both a recovering alcoholic and pregnant and Michael's not about to indulge alone, neither of them goes crazy during their stay. Instead, they watch from afar and live vicariously through the newly legal individuals doing body shots at the bar and the veterans poking fun at the newbies for not being able to hold their liquor. It reminds Sara of times she'd rather forget- she barely remembers most of her time as an alcoholic, but the things she does remember aren't pretty. She can tell Michael knows where her mind's been, but she isn't ashamed of her past, at least not anymore. She doesn't mind sharing a bit of it with him, as long as he doesn't mind listening.

"Clearly this town would be more fun if we were both drunk," Sara says and even she can't tell if she's joking or serious. "I kind of feel like we're out of the loop, here."

"Is it hard?" Michael asks seriously. "Is it too rough on you? Because we can go; we can leave whenever you want."

"No. No, I'm okay," Sara assures him. "I mean, I'm still an addict. That's never going to change. But I haven't wanted a drink in a really, really long time. Not since… Not since Bruce died."

"I'm so sorry, Sara," Michael tells her genuinely. "I should've been more attentive. I should've been there for you."

"No, no you were," Sara disagrees. "You were great. Honestly, anything more and I probably wouldn't have listened to you. That's just how I was; stubborn, headstrong… Not unlike you."

He smirks. "Guilty. You're a little like me, remember?"

"Yeah," She smiles. "I was a mess, back then. But it's okay. I'm on the road to recovery and you're amazing for helping me get there."

"You're amazing for getting there, period," Michael states. "You ready to get out of here?"

Sara nods eagerly. "Absolutely."

**30- completion**

Michael's been sitting on the couch in their Costa Rican villa for over an hour now. The baby's been sick a few days and has been completely unable to sleep; his congested little coughs and raspy breathing and runny, stuffy nose have rendered this impossible. Cranky and frustrated, their son has spent the last few days crying about the simplest of matters. That evening, Michael had tried absolutely everything to get him to sleep; a hot bath, a drive around the neighborhood, rocking in the rocking chair and even just simply walking around the house. But now, as he's lounging on the couch, the baby is curled up on Michael's stomach and is passed out cold. If Michael had known this would work, he would've tried it _hours_ ago.

Sara enters the room, looking just as exhausted as he feels. "Oh my God, he's asleep?"

"Yeah," Michael whispers back. "Don't jinx it."

"How did you do it?" Sara asks. "I've been trying since yesterday."

"I just sat down," Michael tells her. "Kind of rubbed his back a little and he stopped crying. I didn't think he'd fall asleep, but I'm certainly not complaining."

Sara sinks onto the couch beside him and sighs. "Thank God. I'm so tired."

"Me too," Michael agrees. "But I'm also afraid to move in case he wakes up again."

"Oh yeah," Sara yawns. "There is that. Well, I have no problem with staying here all night."

Michael grins, slinking an arm around her shoulders and bringing her as close as he can. "Me either."

She snuggles in, one hand on his lower back and the other on their slumbering son. It's getting late and they can't stay in this position forever; eventually their necks will cramp or the baby will cough and wake himself up or their limbs will go numb. But for now, Michael's content to just sit here with his wife and his son for as long as he can. He looks at the tiny miracle they created and wonders how he never knew how much he could love another person. He looks at Sara and wonders how there was ever a time that he hadn't been with her; he honestly can barely remember his life before her and he truly does not want to. She is why he is here today; she is the absolute love of his life and he can't imagine ever loving anyone as wholly and completely as he loves her. She looks at him, now, and Michael can see the Sara he first met, the Sara he kissed on the train, the Sara he thought was dead and the Sara he married; they're all completely different, but he loves them all the same.

"What?" She asks him as if he's being strange. He isn't, not really. He's merely being sappily, genuinely, and wholesomely in love and no one can ever make him stop.

"Nothing," He shakes his head and kisses her right then and there, carefully trying not to disturb their son. He'll never grow tired of kissing her; he could do it every moment of everyday for the rest of his life. The look on her face when they pull away says she feels the very same. "I love you so much, Sara."

"I love you, too," Sara tells him sincerely and she's grinning as widely as she always does when she admits it, as if saying it makes her as happy as he does.

Michael needs nothing more. Honestly, he's never felt more complete.


End file.
